I've Got You, Sammy
by abelslade2319
Summary: After the second Trial, Sam is suffering and he gets tired of Dean's hovering but accepts his help when it all becomes too much for Sam to handle on his own. Rated T for a significant amount of language - mostly on Sam's part.


I love my brother, more than anything. He's been there for me through everything. But I swear to God, sometimes I want to knock that goddamn smile off his face. Especially today. I already know today's going to be a bad. I feel it, the ache deep in my bones that no amount of pain meds can fix, the constant need to cough up what I know will be more blood, the incessant pounding in my skull that drives me to distraction, and the fever that keeps telling me I'm neck deep in lava one minute and standing buck ass naked in a snow storm the next. Add to that my already shitty attitude and I'm just the picture of health and stability.

Yep. Today's going to be bad.

"Sammy?"

I startle at the hand on my arm and travel up its length to see my big brother's concerned emerald gaze glued to my face. I feel a little piece of me crumble as his burning grip on my arm tightens in unwanted affection.

"What's going on dude?" he asks when I don't respond to his first inquiry.

 _I feel like shit,_ I want to say. So goddamn bad. But that would make him feel guilty and even shittier because he thinks he's supposed to be in my place. The whole 'this one's on me, Sammy' thing. Right. Like anything we ever do goes to plan. So I murmur noncommittedly instead and hope he gets the point to _back the fuck off_.

But he's Dean. So I don't know why I hoped.

"Sam," he says, his voice dangerously low. I know I've gotten on his nerves as much as he is on mine, but _God_.

" _What_?" I grate out, and I know I sound like a petulant five year old but I can't help it. I'm achy, fevered, fucking _hot_ , and my pain in the ass brother is all freaked out because he's not getting my attention. Well, brother, you've got it now.

His brows hike up in surprise at my tone and his lips quirk. "There's Sammy," he says quietly. I can tell he's trying to determine how he wants to deal with me today, so I pitch in my own two cents. Not that it matters much, seeing as I'm the little brother and he'll just pull the whole 'I'm older, so you have to do as I say' argument that always gets him his way just to make him shut up.

"You want the whole list, Dean?" I ask, moving away from his now hovering hand, the one that feels like he's melting my goddamn skin. I know in a few minutes I'll want that, but at the moment I want him really far the fuck away.

I don't give him a chance to respond as I look him dead in the eye, trying to convey my apologies even as the words spew from my mouth. "Fine. I feel like I've been dropped in a fucking volcano, my body is on fucking fire. But I bet you in ten minutes I'll feel like I've been left balls up in a blizzard. My head is pounding like there's no fucking tomorrow. My entire body aches and I can't tell you why the hell that is because hey, the Trials sure fuck everything up so why not add that to the mix. Last night I didn't get a wink of sleep because the ceiling wouldn't stop goddamn moving, and I'm pretty sure I puked in my desk drawer, so I've got that to look forward to. Oh, I am so fucking tired of this Dean," I rant, the last sentence coming out low on an exhale and even I can tell I sound defeated.

I can't bear to see the shocked look Dean is bound to be sporting in the face of my outburst so I bow my head and ease it to rest on the table's edge and close my eyes. "I'm so tired of being tired and sick and in pain all the time, Dean," I whisper.

"I know, Sammy," he whispers back and I feel his hand in my tangled hair but I can't bring myself to shake it off. "I'm so sorry."

 _And it begins_ , I think resignedly. He's about to go off on his spiel again.

But he surprises me when he doesn't, offers one last ruffle through my, admittedly, too long hair, and he moves away. I hear him rummage in the kitchen for a few moments and then he's back. I don't bother to raise my head even when he draws near and I'm rewarded with a cool ice pack on my neck that sends shivers down my overheated body. I let out a relieved groan and by brother chuckles lightly.

"Come on, bro, what do you say? Game of Thrones marathon?" Dean asks. "I have more ice packs where that one came from," he bribes and a huge smile brightens his face when my head snaps up and I nod frantically. If he has more of this _heaven_ , I'd watch the man's favorite porn for the rest of the day. Well, okay, not _really_ , but come on.

As I move to stand, his hand comes to rest on the ice pack to keep it in place as I move my weary body in the direction of Dean's room. He hovers, but doesn't touch me directly, and I'm more grateful for that than I care to admit. It takes us a mite longer than it normally would to cross through the bunker to Dean's room but make it, we do. I lower myself into a chair and stave off Dean's rant before he can even open his mouth.

"I'm so not sitting in your bed, dude," I tell him with a slight shake of my head and move my hand to replace his on the pack. "I'm hot as hell and really uncomfortable right now. Your beds only gonna make that worse."

He huffs in resignation but drags a foldable chair from the corner and joins me, places the laptop on the bed and cues up Game of Thrones. I don't even pay attention to the episode as Dean hands me two more ice packs. I can already tell the one on my nape is melting quickly, the icy droplets travelling down my chest and wetting my already sweat soaked shirt but I don't move it yet. The other two quickly find their way under my arms and I close my eyes in ecstasy as the frozen goodies work their magic.

It's only fifteen minutes later when I feel the change coming and immediately remove the ice packs, letting them drop to the floor.

"Sam?"

I don't answer as I move my neck to dislodge the third, but I'm already shivering and it's only going to get worse.

"Shit."

Before I say anything, Dean is up and dragging the blankets off his bed and wrapping them around my shoulders. The laptop lays forgotten, paused on Jon Snow's own frozen hell hole, as my body contracts in racking shivers. I let out a moan and burrow further into the offered warmth.

"God, Sammy," Dean mutters, running his hands up my blanketed arms as he sees the violence of my shivering for the first time.

"Y-y-yeah," I say, the cold eating me from the inside out as I sat there, trying desperately to fight off the memories of the Cage that threatened to overwhelm me the first time this happened. _Not real, not real, not real_ , I chant in my head, and focus on my brother's worried face above mine, my anchor in reality, Stone Number One. I didn't even realize I'd said that aloud until Dean speaks.

"That's right, Sammy," Dean says, his voice thick, "Stone Number One, man." He's nodding and I know he knows I'm trying to get rid of the last vestiges of my decades in hell that continue to haunt me. "Oh, fuck this," he finally mutters, and moves behind me. He wraps his arms around my torso and leverages me up, and for a moment the ice is back and consuming me, the blankets removed and the icy air overrides whatever semblance of warmth I had gathered from them.

But before I'm consumed completely, gentle arms envelop me and I'm pulled back into a warm chest and rewrapped in blankets. I follow on weak legs as my brother guides us to his bed and he drags us to the head so he can lean back against the wall, with me pinned safely, _warmly_ , to his chest. "I've got you, Sammy," he says, over and over again, for my comfort or his own I don't know, but I really don't care. He's so _warm_. I burrow closer and feel the rumble of laughter against my back and the solid, reassuring thumping of his heart.

"You're r-real," I whisper, steadier now that I am cuddled against the virtual radiator that is my brother.

"Damn straight," he assures me.

"T-thank you," I whisper and turn my head to rest against his chest, moving with every breath he took, steadying me, grounding me.

"I've got you," he says again, resting his chin on my head, like he used to do when we were kids and I'd go to him for comfort from the nightmares that terrorized my sleep. He'd always encircle me in his warmth and reassure me that if something ever came for me he'd always be there to protect me. Even now, when there's no visible enemy, when the thing that's killing me is _inside_ me, he holds me close and tries so hard to protect me.

"I'm sorry, about earlier," I tell him.

He shakes his head, "Don't be, Sammy. I know this is hard, hell it's hard on _me_ , and I'm just your glorified space heater," he jokes. I huff a laugh for him, but when he continues, he's serious. "Really, though, Sam, I want you to be honest with me. You need to tell me, man, what you're feeling. I don't know how to help you if you won't talk to me."

I close my eyes for a few of his heartbeats and nod. "I'll try to be more tactful from now on," I promise, a small grin in place as I wait for his inevitable bashing of my earlier verbal blowout.

"No, man, if that's what it takes, you can curse me out all you want. You were truthful, and no matter how much I didn't want to hear it, it was the truth," Dean says, surprising me yet again. "Though don't you _ever_ go out, how'd you say it, balls up in a blizzard?" he chuckles, "I never wanna see that, Sammy, not ever."

I laugh with him and the mood is lighter when the pendulum my body swings on starts to ease over into the Sahara Desert again. I shed the blankets and Dean loosens his hold on me, but I lay there for a second more, just drinking in the feeling of comfort and safety my big brother so willingly offers, before I extricate my already sweaty self from his embrace.

"Right," I whisper, already exhausted from my body's constant fluctuating. I run a hand over my forehead and move the bangs of my eyes. _I really need a haircut_ , I think, but don't vocalize, already seeing that mischievous glimmer in Dean's eye as he watches the movement. I know he's thinking the same thing, but he'll wait me out because he knows I won't let him touch it unless it's me who offers it up. And I'm just not up for that. Not today.

It is a few more hours of this until my body starts to finally regulate itself with the help of some Tylenol from Dean's bedside table. I've gone through three pairs of clothes, soaked through from my bursts of overheated, sweaty caveman moments. The Samsicle periods are powered through held tightly in Dean's arms, and he doesn't complain not once, just holds me close and murmurs in my ear until the shivering eventually stops and we have a bit until the next turn comes.

We talk about a little of everything, befores and afters, what-ifs and could-haves. We talk about what we want to do after the Trials, what the third could be. We talk about Cas and Kevin, about where they are and what they could be doing. We talk about those we've lost, Mom, Dad, Bobby, Jo, Ellen. We talk about a lot of things, but I can tell my diminishing health is worrying Dean down to a nub. I try to console him, but I'm exhausted and he can see it. So we try to move things to lighter, safer topics. Like what we're going to do for his birthday, for mine – he gets overly excited about pie, but really, he's my brother, so that's not going to change.

Things get hazy after that, exhaustion and my pounding headache finally making themselves known amidst the general ache of my body. I'm still nestled in Dean's arms, and the last thing I remember is his constant mantra, "I've got you, Sammy."

And I don't doubt him for a second.

Turns out…today wasn't so bad after all.


End file.
